


An Absolute Mess

by youvebeenlivingfictional



Category: Enola Holmes (2020)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, mostly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:29:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28369161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youvebeenlivingfictional/pseuds/youvebeenlivingfictional
Summary: Your Aunt Martha had written you a…  Moderately frantic letter asking you for help. She was an older woman  with a couple of lodgers at 221B Baker Street.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Reader, Sherlock Holmes/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 155





	An Absolute Mess

**Author's Note:**

> Point of view switches between Sherlock and the Reader. Reader is Mrs. Hudson’s niece.

It started with his pipe, you see.   
  
Sherlock couldn’t find his pipe.   
  
This was probably the result of his flat being an absolute mess.   
  
Typically it didn’t get this out of hand, but his last case had been something of a whirlwind. There were books laid open, notes atop them, jackets strewn across the back of chairs, plates with half-finished meals left unattended.   
  
Typically, Mrs. Hudson did a bit of housekeeping to keep his flat in order.   
  
So where was his pipe?   
  
“Mrs. _HUDSON!”_   
  


\-- 

Your Aunt Martha had written you a… Moderately frantic letter asking you for help. She was an older woman with a couple of lodgers at 221B Baker Street. She did a bit of light housekeeping for an extra fee, but apparently one of her tenants needed more than a  _ little _ housekeeping. Aunt Martha had a small room that she could give you to stay in while she caught up with her duties - so long as you focused on that one particular tenant: Sherlock Holmes. 

\-- 

“Mrs. Hudson!”    
  
You didn’t answer to that call - you were  _ a _ Hudson, you weren’t  _ Mrs. Hudson _ .    
  
“Mrs. Hudson? Mrs. Huds--”    
  
There was a pause behind you. You straightened up, turning to face the man that had stopped in the doorway.    
  
“I am not taking on new clients at present, and any inquiries must first be made by mail.”    
  
“I’m not a client, Mr. Holmes. I’m here to help you. You’ve left quite the mess.”    
  
“You’re not Mrs. Hudson.”    
  
You raised a brow.    
  
“Well  _ done _ , Mr. Holmes. She warned me that you were a sharp one. I’m her niece.”    
  
You strode forward as you introduced yourself, holding your hand out for him to shake. He was hesitant before he shook it, eyes narrowing.    
  
“I’ll just go and confirm this with her, then, if you don’t mind,” He watched you for any signs of deception - any flinch, any hesitance. As you weren’t lying, though, you had none to show.    
  
“Not at all,” You shook your head, “And when you’re back, you can tell me where you like to keep your pipe.”    
  
You reached into your apron pocket, procuring the piece. Sherlock looked down at it before he reached out, plucking it from your hand.    
  
“I’ll take that, thank you.” 

\--

During the first couple of weeks of your time with Mr. Holmes, you couldn’t quite understand how his flat had come to be quite so messy. He seemed to keep to himself, for the most part; he rarely had company, and when he did, they were clients that hardly touched the tea and sandwiches that you brought. 

You weren’t sure why your Aunt Martha begged you to stay on, even as you packed at the end of the second week.    
  
“It’s in good shape now, Aunt Martha, it’ll hardly be an issue,” You laughed as you did up your coat.   
  
“No, my dear, you do not understand - he’s started a case just this week.”    
  
“And so he has, but only a day ago. What kind of damage could the man have possibly done within a day?” You asked, “Now I’ll just run upstairs and say goodbye to Mr. Holmes.” 

You hurried up the steps and found the flat that you’d left in quite a tidy state the night before in absolute chaos - nearly every surface had something on it: books, or plates, or clothing of some kind. It was as if you’d done nothing at all those past two weeks.    
  
You sighed, unbuttoning your coat and hanging it over the back of a chair.    
  
“Why are you leaving that there?” You heard Sherlock ask.    
  
“It’s a wonder that you should notice that, considering the fact that it looks like a tempest has blown through here--”    
  
“Where’s my pipe?” You heard Sherlock mumble. You glanced over at him as he began to rifle around in the mess that he’d left.    
  
“Could’ve sworn--”    
  
You rolled your eyes, lifting away a discarded napkin and spotting the missing object. You picked it up and cleared your throat, holding it out to him.    
  
“Do me a favor and sit in one spot while I work away at this mess, please,” You said, nodding toward Sherlock’s chair, where your jacket was hanging.

\--   
  
Sherlock watched you begin to neaten the ‘mess’ he’d managed to make over the last day.    
  
“Leave the books where they are,” He ordered before stepping over to his armchair and settling into it. He watched you for a few moments before he leaned back in his seat, tucking his pipe into his waistcoat pocket and steepling his fingers in contemplation, brow furrowing.    
  
He’d smelled sulfur at the crime scene...Sulfur… Almonds and hyacinths--    
  
His brow furrowed and he turned his head, taking a whiff from your coat.    
  
Almonds and hyacinths - a pleasing scent--    
  
“Put those down,” Sherlock snapped as he spotted you lifting a short stack of open books. He watched you stalk toward him and jolted as you dropped the stack into his lap. Sherlock watched you retreat before he glanced down at the books.    
  
“... I needed them, so thank you,” He added, not wanting you to think you’d gotten the better of him.    
  
\--   
  
He couldn’t see you roll your eyes at that, but you did.    
  
In the coming weeks and months, you’d roll your eyes at Sherlock Holmes quite a bit. But you found yourself smiling quite a bit, too. Because for all of his gruffness and eccentricities, he could be… Quite funny. And on the odd occasion, he could be sweet.    
  
You’d found that out when you’d fallen ill.    
  
Alright,  _ fallen ill _ was a touch dramatic - you’d caught a cold.    


It happened while Sherlock was in the middle of a case. Sometimes when he was working, when something was troubling him about it, he tended to pace about the room, just above where you slept; if he didn’t sleep, nor did you. The first night that he had started pacing, you’d gone upstairs with the intention of telling him off. You’d wound up staying half the night listening to the man talk through the facts of the case. 

It was a wonder: you had heard of the man’s intellectual prowess, but to hear him unpick a knot that he was working on was fascinating. You’d asked questions, interrupted him -- and he’d  _ allowed _ it. He hadn’t bickered or told you to leave, despite the fact that you’d barged into his flat well past the hour that it was socially acceptable (though you’d grasped by then that Sherlock cared little for social convention).    
  
You’d managed to sneak back into your room before your Aunt Martha could get up and find out that you’d been in a man’s rooms, unchaperoned, well past midnight. It had been...Thrilling, but you’d told yourself that it wouldn’t happen again.    
  
Then it did -- again, and again.    
  
But-- Well, your cold had kept you in bed one night. Your ears were clogged, and your head ached. You hadn’t heard Sherlock’s pacing. He’d found  _ something _ (the fire poker, you later found out), and banged it on the floor three times to rouse you. You’d pulled your aching body out of bed and out of your drafty little room, which Sherlock had visited exactly once before to ask you where he’d left his pipe (the man could never find the bloody thing, it seemed). You’d wrapped yourself tightly in your robe and gone up the stairs. Sherlock had been waiting in the doorway, brow furrowed in frustration as he waited for you.    
  
But then, when he caught sight of you, his face shifted - that furrowed brow dropped to something softer, and his frown lifted to a pout.    
  
“What on earth are you doing out of bed?” He asked, even as you shifted on your feet, shivering and sniffling in front of him.    
  
“You knocked,” You told him, “Did you figure it out who-- the-- the burglar was?” You tried to ask, but Sherlock was whisking you inside and steering you toward  _ his _ armchair beside the fire. He’d managed to not completely ruin the way you’d left the flat just a few hours ago, while he’d been out.    
  
You sank into the seat, shivering even as he covered you over with a blanket. You frowned a little, watching him.    
  
“Did you?” You pressed.    
  
“What?” He asked.    
  
“The burglar,” You reminded him.    
  
“Never mind that.”    
  
“But I want to know,” You pouted at him. Sherlock hesitated before he began to tell you about the case. It was a little more difficult for you to keep up with his thoughts than usual, but you managed, asking the odd question. But Sherlock’s voice was so warm, and calming that you drifted off in that arm chair.    
  
\--    
  
You woke up in a bed.    
  
It wasn’t  _ your _ bed. It was  _ a _ bed.    
  
It took you a few moments to realize that you were in a room that you had cleaned before.    
  
Sherlock’s bedroom. You blinked dumbly, looking around the room and spotting a note with your name on it sitting on the bedside table. You reached out, picking it up and opening it.    
  
_ You fell asleep in the armchair. I told Mrs. Hudson that you went out for an early morning walk and asked her to stay out of the flat.  _

__ __ _ -S.H. _

You read the note over a couple of times, feeling your stomach fluttering. The man must’ve carried you to his bed. Where on earth had  _ he _ slept?    


_ Had _ he slept at all?    
  
You shook your head, getting out of bed and looking around. You needed to wash the sheets - and the blanket that Sherlock had tucked you under the night before. It was the least you could do.    
  
\--    
  
“Where’s my--”    
  
“If you’re about to ask for your pipe, Mr. Holmes, I may have to insist on your carrying it with you at all times,” You said, crossing your arms and watching Sherlock. He rose a brow, stepping closer to you.    
  
“If you would let me finish my question,  _ Miss Hudson _ ,” He said, even as he walked closer, “I was going to ask where my dressing gown is.”    
  
“I suspect it’s in your bedroom, where it ought to be.”    
  
“Helpful as always, Miss Hudson,” He stepped past you, shoulder brushing yours. You felt your cheeks warm at the slight contact.    
  
“I do what I can, Mr. Holmes,” Was your mumbled retort.   


\--

“Have you something to tell me?” Mycroft asked.    
  
“Hm?” Sherlock didn’t turn away from his paper as Mycroft stared him down.    
  
“Something regarding a young lady, perhaps?”    
  
Sherlock frowned, lowering the paper.    
  
“What on earth are you talking about?”    
  
“You smell quite… Floral.”    
  
Sherlock frowned, raising his arm to his nose and taking a whiff. Almonds and hyacinths.    
  
“My housekeeper,” He passed off, raising his paper again.    
  
“Oh,” Mycroft frowned, clearly displeased by the lack of gossip, “Mrs...Houston, was it?”    
  
“Hudson. Miss,” Sherlock corrected, tone clipped as he turned the page of his paper.    
  
“Your landlady?”    
  
“Her niece.”    
  
“Ah… Young?”    
  
“I suppose.”    
  
“Attractive?”    
  
Apparently that had reinvigorated Mycroft's interest in the topic.  
  
“What on earth does that matter?” Sherlock turned from his paper and found Mycroft carefully distracted by his own.    
  
“It doesn’t, of course. I was simply asking.”    
  
“Curious question.”    
  
“One which you’ve chosen not to answer.”    
  
“... I haven’t noticed.”  


That was a lie. Sherlock had noticed.    
  
Sherlock noticed quite a bit about you - your little quirks and interests, how you took your tea. He’d also seen the little looks that you gave him when you were quite certain that he wasn’t looking - eye rolls and secret smiles, looks of fondness, and longing. He’d seen them from other young ladies, but you’d never made any advances or hints toward him. You did scold him when he came home late, or when he hadn’t eaten that day; you didn’t put up with his grumbling or his snapping at you.    
  
And you were clever. He’d set up his chessboard in his sitting room, and the two of you had been playing for weeks. Never sitting down with one another, never together. He’d come home one night, and a white pawn had been moved.    
  
He hadn’t done it himself, he was sure. The flat was clean, however, so you’d clearly been in that day. Sherlock had gone about his evening, ignoring the chessboard. The next morning, before he’d left for the day, he’d moved a black pawn. When he’d returned home, the white pawn had been moved again.   
  
You had kept the pieces faithfully; you never moved or touched his, save to take one for the game. As much as he hated to admit it, you were winning.    
  
You were smart. You challenged him.    
  
You were lovely. 

\-- 

Sherlock had been… Odd lately.    
  
He’d been much more quiet around you, and had backed away from the teasing nature that had emerged once the two of you had grown closer.    
  
It couldn’t have been a case - he hadn’t mentioned anything to you, hadn’t seen any clients. He’d even stopped playing your chess game. You hadn’t won, nor had he. You still came up to clean the flat, but lately, there wasn’t much to clean.    


That morning, when you went up to clean, the place was as spotless as you’d left it the day before. You frowned, looking around.    
  
If Sherlock was keeping things tidy himself, he certainly didn’t need you around anymore. You sighed quietly, a sinking feeling in your stomach. You would need to leave Baker Street. There had been a day, months before, where you had been excited at the prospect; now, you were dismayed.    
  
You’d become… Really very fond of Sherlock Holmes. The feelings were stronger than fondness, if you were being frank with yourself, but you were afraid of voicing any stronger feelings to even yourself.    
  
“Miss Hudson?”   
  
You jumped at the sound of his voice and looked up as Sherlock came out of his bedroom.    
  
“Mr. Holmes,” You greeted, nodding to him. You cleared your throat, taking a couple of steps back, “I’m sorry, I-- I should be on my way.”    
  
“Whatever for?”    
  
“Well…” You looked around pointedly, “There isn’t anything for me to do here.”    
  
“I was hoping we could finish our game,” Sherlock gestured to the chessboard on the table. Your brows rose.    
  
“Oh.”    
  
“If you’ve nothing else to do, that is.”    
  
“No,” You shook your head, untying your apron, “I’ve the time now-- so long as you’re not occupied.”    
  
“I am not.”    
  
“Let me just go and put this away, then,” You held your apron up before turning and hurrying down the stairs. You tucked your apron away before you turned to the small mirror that was hung on your wall, smoothing back your hair and giving your cheeks a pinch.    
  
Not that it mattered, of course, Sherlock wouldn’t  _ notice, _ surely, but… Well, there was something curious about the fact that he had kept the flat tidy in order for the two of you to finish your game. He’d never mentioned it to you outright before. Perhaps he simply wanted the game over with?    
  
\--  


“Tell me something,” He requested, even as he kept his focus on the board in front of him, “Should I manage to keep the flat tidy of my own volition, what will you do?”   
  
Your brow furrowed a little. What on earth had that to do with chess?    
  
“Well… I’d return home, I suppose,” You said after a few moments. Sherlock raised his eyes to you before turning back to the board.    
  
“And what would you do there?”    
  
“There’s a school nearby. I help there if I’m needed.”    
  
“What else?”    
  
“Why are you asking, Mr. Holmes?”    
  
“Because, Miss Hudson,” He reached out, moving his knight before leaning back in his seat, “I need to know just how messy I shall have to be to keep you at Baker Street.”    
  
You watched him for a moment. You’d had Sherlock tease you before -- had seen a sparkle in his eye, a twitch in his lip, and had savored those moments. But there was no hint of teasing now.    
  
“Well, at least moderately, I should imagine,” You answered, lowering your eyes to the board and surveying it for your next move, “If my Aunt Martha can manage the duties herself, then she won’t need me and she’ll send me home.”    
  
“And if I asked you to stay?”    
  
“What should you want me around for, Mr. Holmes? You’ve managed to keep your flat clean for an entire night. I daresay you might be able to find your pipe yourself,” You retorted, moving your bishop. You took his knight, setting it aside before adding, “Check.”   
  
Sherlock shifted in his seat, brow arching at where you’d set his knight aside.    
  
“And suppose that what I’m speaking of is a little more… Involved than a missing pipe.”    
  
“How involved?”    
  
“Where else am I meant to find such a knowledgeable and reliable sounding board? Besides... I’m not sure what I’d do without the scent of almonds and hyacinths around, Miss Hudson.”    
  
Sherlock’s voice was much more quiet, and you felt your heart speed up in your chest. You always dabbed a little of your favorite perfume on your wrists in your morning, behind your ears and on the hollow of your throat. You didn’t think-- at least you didn’t  _ realize _ that Sherlock had ever taken notice. You swallowed thickly.    
  
“I… I could give you the name of the shop where you could procure a bottle for yourself,” You offered. Sherlock’s lips did quirk then, a little, and he shook his head.    
  
“It’s much less the perfume that concerns me and more the wearer,” he murmured before he reached down, shifting his rook and adding, “ _ Checkmate _ .”    
  
You looked down to find that he was correct. You let out a shaky sigh.    
  
“Well played, Mr. Holmes,” You nodded to him. He hummed.    
  
“You haven’t happened to see my pipe, have you?” He asked. You rolled your eyes.    
  
“I truly believe that’s the only reason you want me around,” You admitted, rising out of your chair and crossing to his desk, “I told you yesterday that I had put it--”    
  
You opened the drawer and looked down at the object for a moment before you frowned, spotting a band on it that you’d never seen before - silver, and glinting. You lifted the pipe out of the drawer, eyes on what you had realized was a ring. You heard Sherlock came closer, shivered as you felt him crowd up behind you.    
  
“I should be very pleased if you stay at Baker Street, Miss Hudson,” He murmured, “And I shall do my best not to make an absolute mess of this.” 


End file.
